


Present

by melchimaus



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, Mild Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2019-01-28 23:47:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12618300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melchimaus/pseuds/melchimaus
Summary: Katniss spends the day without Peeta... kind of.





	Present

Katniss can feel herself drifting towards wakefulness. She groans, rolling face down into her pillow, trying to get comfortable. Her sleep had not been restful; her muscles feel sore, and there’s a pinch in the back of her neck that signals an upcoming headache. She curls up into a ball, and her back nudges Peeta behind her. _At least he hasn’t gotten up yet either_. Unfolding herself, but keeping her eyes closed, she turns over and slings an arm around his torso – and is met with a fistful of hair.

Her eyes shoot open. She’s cuddled up to a large, blonde, _furry_ mass.

She jerks herself backwards and off the bed. Her bow and arrow are downstairs, but she grabs the lamp off the bedside table and wields it threateningly towards the creature. It snuffles in its sleep, then raises it head to look at her, and… barks?

“How’d you even get in?” Katniss yells, but the dog only gives a wide yawn, and stretches itself out, it’s front paws pressing against the headboard. It stands up and walks a quick circle on the bed, only to be interrupted by a loud yowl. Buttercup’s disgruntled face appears in the mess of sheets. The dog barks again, as if laughing, and gives his head a sloppy lick, before settling down beside him. The cat hisses, but lays down beside its belly, rubbing his face against it.

Katniss watches in confusion. “Peeta,” she calls loudly, slowly lowering the lamp. “If this is your idea of a surprise… you know I don’t like surprises!”

There is no response. The dog lays its head between its front paws, still watching her. Katniss’ eyebrows furrow.

“Peeta?” She can’t smell anything baking, so she assumes he’s in his studio. She heads toward the door, and the dog scrambles after her, once again dislodging Buttercup, who cries in indignation. Katniss ignores them both, knocking gently on the door. When there’s no response, she slowly opens it, to reveal a plain bedroom. There is a neatly made four-poster bed against the wall, a small vanity, and a few dressers beside the window. There isn’t much dust, but she still catches sight of small particles floating in the sunshine. She hurries toward the dresser, pulling the drawers out. Nothing.

She turns back to the dog. “Where is Peeta?” she asks tightly, as if it knows what she’s saying. It barks in response, but doesn’t move.

She runs out into the hallway, checking the rest of the rooms, even peeking into Prim’s bedroom, but there are no signs of Peeta or his art. No torn, leftover canvas stolen by Buttercup; no charcoals or paintbrushes scattered around the house so one is always on hand; even the old jars that he uses to clean the brushes, ones that Katniss habitually uses as vases, have seemingly turned into _actual_ vases, white porcelain with ribbons of colour dancing around the surface.

She can hear her heart thudding painfully in her chest as she races down the stairs, or perhaps it’s the dog padding along behind her. The kitchen is empty. Tearing through the cupboards, she finds no flour and sugar, only a few rudimentary herbs, none of the baking materials that Peeta would need. Her pantry has a few loaves of bread in it, but it’s missing the buns and pastries he likes to make for her. Experimenting in case he ever wanted to open a bakery again, he’d said, and Katniss had happily deemed herself Official Taste Tester, both for the food, and the baker’s delicious mouth.

The dog is still there when she spins again, brushing her hair out of her face as she tries not to cry. As if noticing her distress, he whimpers, and she breaks. Curling into herself again, she lets the tears flow, ugly sobs tearing out of her throat. She wraps her arms around her chest, but they lack the comfort that Peeta’s always held. “Peeta,” she whispers brokenly, staring longingly at her lonely kitchen.

Something warm touches her cheek. The dog has stepped up to her, licking away her tears. It nuzzles her cheeks and neck, until it’s resting on top of her knees. It’s bright blue eyes mirror her own grief, and it gives a low whine in its throat; she feels its rumble in her bones. Tentatively, she reaches out and pats its head; it lets her, and licks her palm. It moves so it’s standing beside her, then gently places its paws on top of her knees. She gently lowers them, and the dog steps forward to lie on her lap. Its head remains raised, nuzzling and licking her face again, until she can’t help but smile as she strokes its floppy golden ears. It tilts its head, directing her touch, and its tongue peeks out of its mouth as its tail wags happily behind it.

She doesn’t know how long she sits there, petting this sweet dog, but eventually her legs start to cramp, and she gently nudges it away. It goes willingly, and she stands, bracing herself against the counter. If Peeta’s missing, she’s going to find him, and with that thought, she makes her way to Haymitch’s house.

The door is unlocked as usual, and though she sees some dirty plates stacked in various places, the smell is not overbearing. Haymitch himself is awake, seemingly mesmerized by the swirl of colours on his television screen.

She clears her throat. “Haymitch.”

She sees him glance at her out of the corner of his eye. “Hey, get me some bread, will you?”

She grits her teeth. “Haymitch,” she says again. She feels something at her side, and sees the dog has wandered off into the kitchen. When it returns, it has a half-eaten loaf of bread in its mouth. It steps delicately over the broken bottles and used silverware on the floor, and deposits the loaf on Haymitch’s lap.

“Thanks, Peeta,” Haymitch says, and pats the dog on the head. Its job done, it quickly makes its way back to Katniss. Her eyes widen.

“P-peeta?” she stutters. “Did you just call the dog Peeta?”

Haymitch rips a chunk of bread off the loaf and stuffs it in his mouth. “That’s its name, ain’t it?”

Katniss stares at the man in front of her, then at the dog. The man ignores her. The dog stares back. “Is he… mine?”

At this, Haymitch finally turns to look at her. “You okay, Sweetheart?” Katniss can see him take in her loose, tangled hair and puffy red eyes.

“I…” She takes a breath. “I woke up and Peeta – the man – wasn’t there.”

His chewing slows. “What man?”

Her fists clench involuntarily. “Peeta Mellark,” she enunciates. “Blonde hair, blue eyes?” Haymitch glances between her and the dog, and she huffs. “My partner in the 74th Hunger Games?”

He puts the bread down and reaches for a bottle. She can see it’s empty, but he swirls it anyway. “The Mellarks are dead,” he says slowly. “And none of them were named Peeta.” He glances at the bottle, and puts it down the coffee table. “And your partner was Thom Yorke. He died before the top 10.”

She can feel her temples beginning to throb. The dog steps closer to her side, nudging at her hand. “What about the Quarter Quell?”

Haymitch is silent for a moment. “Katniss, do you want to call your mother?”

“No!” she screams, and she can feel tears threatening to fall, frustrated. “Peeta – he was a baker and – we were the star-crossed lovers, and I didn’t want to kill him so –“ Haymitch stands up, and she automatically takes several steps back. The dog steps in front of her and barks, its hackles raised. Haymitch raises his hands placatingly.

“Whoa, boy,” he says, but the dog just growls at him. “Look, just – why don’t you go back to bed, sweetheart? I’ll have Sae drop by later.”

She huffs. “Forget it!” She turns and stomps out the door. She heads back home, jerking her front door open with more force than necessary, and grabs her bow and arrow. She can feel Haymitch’s eyes on her as she storms towards the woods, her rage simmering. The dog saunters ahead of her, and when they reach the hole in the fence, he crawls under first, grabbing the wire with his teeth and keeping the tear open for her to follow. She’s oddly touched by the gesture.

Slowing her pace, her body automatically shifting into a soft hunter’s tread, she makes her way to the hollow tree where she used to store her weapons. She plops down against the trunk, and the dog sits with her, laying its head in her lap again. She scratches its ears without thinking.

“This doesn’t make sense,” she says to herself, though she imagines again that the dog might understand her. “I didn’t make Peeta up. He was real. He _is_ real.” The dog whimpers, though in agreement or sympathy, she doesn’t know.

She takes a few deep breaths, then stands. She closes her eyes, listening to the rustle of the wind through the leaves, the flapping of wings, the rhythmic steps of small prey through the bush. She opens her eyes, and strides deeper into her woods.

She can hear the dog following behind her, trampling on crunchy leaves and brittle twigs, panting loudly. She pauses, reminded of Peeta’s loud tread scaring game away. She looks at the dog again, who stares intently back at her, as if waiting for her cue. She bites her lip, then turns and continues her trek.

She comes across a clearing, and positions herself behind a large tree. She scans the canopy above, and spots a squirrel, sitting exposed on a branch, nibbling on a nut. She nocks an arrow; the squirrel falls.

Suddenly, the dog shoots from her side. “Hey!” she calls, but is ignored. She stands to go after it, but soon hears the sounds of it returning through the brush. She smiles; it’s carrying the dead squirrel in its mouth. It trots over to her, and drops it at her feet.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, giving it a scratch behind the ears. She pulls the arrow out from the rodent’s eye, and places it in her game bag. The dog nudges her hip, then runs off again.

Katniss sits down again, wondering what the dog is up to. It’s attached to her, _like the real Peeta_ , she thinks wryly, and she knows it will return again soon. Looking around, she sees a small patch of mushrooms, and gathers a few while she waits.

A few more squirrels have met their end before she hears loud barking. Hastily dumping her latest kill, arrow and all, into her bag, she stands, ready to attack. Movement from the left catches her eye, and she turns in time to see a hare darting rapidly into the clearing. Immediately, she lets her arrow fly, killing it mid-hop. Another quickly follows, as well as a third. There is more rustling and the dog appears, scooping up one of the hares in its mouth, and making its way towards Katniss.

_It must have herded them_ , she thinks, and feels a swell of pride for it. The dog quickly delivers the rest of the bounty. “You did good,” she tells it, and it cocks its head, then lays down, showing her its belly. She lets out a quiet laugh and starts to scratch at it, giggling louder as it squirms beneath her touch, its tail wagging madly.

“That’s enough for one day,” she says, giving it a few soft pats. The dog stands and nudges her own belly, before walking back towards the fence.

She doesn’t bother scanning for prey again, but the dog will sometimes dart into the trees for a few minutes, retuning with a quail or some other small game in its mouth. Other times, it will nuzzle against a bush with herbs or a few lingering fruits. Katniss nearly stops breathing when she sees it sniffing at some dark berries; they were only blackberries, but the dog seems to sense her anxiety, and starts walking by her side instead of ahead of her.

Neither Haymitch nor Sae are anywhere to be seen when they return to her house.  The dog sits patiently by the table as she fills a bowl with some water, and places it in front of him. It barks at her, then begins lapping earnestly. She smiles, and pulls out the chair closest to it, and begins to skin and disembowel her game. She stores some for cooking, and saves a bit for Buttercup, but more often than not, she finds herself offering it to the dog, who licks her hand clean each time. After drinking its fill, it had shifted closer so it lay right next to Katniss’ chair. It’s quiet, and she would think it were napping, if its head didn’t snap up immediately every time she lowered her hand with another offering.

The dog may not be Peeta, but she finds that she enjoys its company. As soon as she realizes her train of thought, she freezes; the dog looks up questioningly, nosing at her wrist. She looks down at it.

“You’ll help me find him, right?” she asks. “And you’ll protect him, too?”

The dog doesn’t answer, just relaxes again. She wonders what it means.

Their peace is broken by a crash, glass breaking and falling, and a screech from Buttercup. She thinks he maybe have broken a window somehow, but the dog immediately tenses, getting to its feet, and growling.

“Easy,” she says, running a hand along its back, but the dog ignores her. It barks loudly and in quick succession, then launches itself through the doorway. Katniss stands to follow it, but trips on a chair leg. She falls, landing on her side, and she feels a stab of pain in her shoulder radiating into her collarbones. She tries to get up, but feels pressure from above. Twisting her body, she sees nothing there, but her legs can’t seem to move, and she can’t pull herself forward with only one good arm.

Suddenly, the barking stops. She hears the rattle of wind through an open window, and… is that whimpering?

“Peeta!” she screams, and she doesn’t know who she’s calling for. She twists again under the invisible force keeping her in place. “Peeta!” She sees her knife where it’s fallen from the table. She reaches out for it, fingertips grazing the hilt. The light pressure causes it to spin, and her grasping fingers clutch onto the blade instead. She pulls the weapon back towards her, rolling onto her back. The exertion has exhausted her, and she struggles to breathe.

The whimpers have stopped now, as has the whistling wind. She squeezes her eyes together tightly, taking large gulping breaths, trying not to think of the worst. The knife in her hand has sliced into her palm, and she loosens her grip, opening her eyes to assess the damage.

“Katniss?”

Blue eyes on a scarred, _human_ face stare back at her. “Hey,” he murmurs, and kisses her forehead. “Are you okay?”

Katniss looks around. She’s lying on the couch, tangled up in an old throw. Peeta is kneeling on the ground beside her, one hand stroking her hair back from her face. She wrenches her arm out from under the blanket, and sees the nail marks embedded into her palm.

Suddenly, the reality of the situation hits her.

“Peeta!”

She throws herself at him, nearly knocking him over, but he braces himself on the floor behind him. She runs her hands over his face, peppering kisses everywhere she can reach. Peeta is amused by her reaction but lets her continue, rubbing his own hands down her back.

It’s not enough. She manages to kick the blanket completely off of her, then rolls back, pulling Peeta on top of her. She reaches up, capturing his lips, hands slinking under his shirt and pushing it up his torso.

“Hey, hey,” Peeta interrupts, and sits up, straddling her. She whines at the loss of contact, and he laces their fingertips together. “Do you wanna talk about your nightmare first?”

“You were _gone_ , Peeta,” she huffs, and tugs on his hand to get him to lay back down again. He acquiesces slightly, leaning forward to hover over her.

“Only for a couple days,” he says calmly, planting a soft kiss on her scowling lips. “And we talked every one of those days.”

“I _know,_ ” she growls at him. She removes his hands from hers, and goes back to trying to pull his shirt off. “I meant, in my dream, you–“ She grunts when he won’t lift his arms to help with his shirt, and pushes on his chest instead. They both sit up, and she strips her own shirt off before tugging on his again. “I just need you.”

Once they’re both shirtless, she squirms out from underneath him. She braces her hands against his chest and kisses him again, her tongue sweeping through his mouth, reaffirming the taste and feel of him. She slides her hands down his chest, purposefully rubbing his nipples, before wrapping her arms tightly around his back, tracing the myriad of scars there.

Peeta breaks the kiss. “By the way,” he pants into her mouth. “I might have scared Buttercup when I came in. He knocked a vase over.”

“I don’t care,” she says, and smashes their lips back together. She pulls at one of his legs, wanting him closer, and he thrusts against her hip instead. He’s hard, and she thinks fleetingly of taking this upstairs, but decides they can do that later. Instead, she adjusts her hips, so his thrusts hit her centre, and she moans. It’s frantic, and not at all sensual, but she can’t find it in her to care. He was _gone_.

“Fuck, Katniss,” Peeta groans, and moves to kiss her neck, biting and sucking at the skin. She fumbles to remove their pants before giving up, bring her hands up to rake her nails through his hair. One of his hands squeezes her breast, right above her heart, and she can’t help but cover her hand with his.

She can smell his musk as their bodies work together, the sweet friction of his torso against hers, the strength of his legs as they rut against each other. She pulls on his hair to bring his lips back to hers, kissing sloppily, both close. She comes without warning, arching under him as her clit throbs, and all her muscles tense as pleasure crashes through her. She turns her head into his shoulder and bites at the crook of his neck, tasting the salt of his skin, as she shudders, sated.

Peeta continues to grind against her, and she jerks as his movements stimulate her oversensitive clit. She manoeuvres her hand into his pants, palming the head of his cock, and he groans loudly.

“Tighter,” he grits out, and she complies. A few more thrusts, and he’s coming, spilling onto her fist.

He collapses into the back of the couch, so as not to crush her, and they both shift so she can lie on top of him. Her panties are starting to feel uncomfortable, and she knows Peeta probably isn’t faring much better, but she can’t bring herself to move just yet. Idly, she licks some of the cum off her fingers, and Peeta groans. Katniss laughs, and looks up at him. His eyelashes flutter as he meets her gaze.

“I…” she pauses, trying to find the right words. “We went through… terrible things.”

Peeta remains silent, his thumb brushing her shoulder comfortingly.

“And I don’t love you _because_ of it, but it’s still a part of us. You know?”

“I know,” he replies, and she believes him. She turns away, and smiles into his chest. He kisses the top of her head. “Wanna head up to bed? I’ve kinda missed it.”

She loops her arms around his neck. “Carry me?”

He chuckles, and lifts her up.


End file.
